THAT DEADLY DULL SHADE OF BLUE
by Vanessa Sgroi
Summary: Something seriously odd is going on with Dean, and Sam must figure out what's happening before things take a deadly turn. Rated T for swearing. This is my entry for the December/January prompt challenge over at Writer's Guild. Now Complete.
1. The Cold Settles In

This is my entry for the December/January prompt challenge over at Writer's Guild. The prompt word is cold. As of this moment, I think this is going to be a two-shot story.

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Disclaimer: Neither the boys nor anything related to Supernatural belongs to me. I'm just playing around with Eric Kripke's masterpiece of creation.

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**That Deadly Dull Shade of Blue**

**By: Vanessa Sgroi**

"Blech!"

Sam Winchester looked up from stirring cream into his coffee. "What?"

"My coffee's cold," Dean eyed his brother across the chipped Formica table, "How's yours?"

The younger man raised his mug and took a sip, shrugging before setting the drink back down. "Mine's fine."

"Well, mine's not," Dean craned his neck, gaze roaming around the sparsely populated diner. "Where's the waitress?"

"She just went into the kitchen. She'll probably be out in a second."

Dean focused on the swinging doors dividing the kitchen from the dining area intently, waving his hand to garner her attention the second he saw her. He watched the gaunt, sour-faced woman saunter toward their table, speaking as she drew near. "My coffee's cold. Can I get another cup?"

"Cold? But I just poured that for you not more 'en two minutes ago." If possible, her expression soured even more.

Seeing the green-eyed man's implacable expression, she reached out and grabbed his mug, only to retract her fingers the second they touched the ceramic. She scowled. "It's not cold," she rasped in a three-pack-a-day smoker's drawl, "What is this—play mind games with the waitress hour?"

Seeing his stubborn brother take a breath to escalate the argument, Sam broke in, earnestly donning his puppy-dog face. "Look…uh…" his gaze flickered to the nametag above her almost nonexistent right breast, "Harriet…my brother's just a little picky about his coffee. Likes it piping hot. Could you just humor him and bring another cup?" Sam picked up Dean's cup and handed it to the waitress.

The woman's mouth pinched in exasperation. "Fine. I'll be right back."

The green-eyed hunter watched her walk away. "Damn. Talk about cold! She's about as friendly as an iceberg." He shuddered for effect.

"What was that all about?" Sam leaned forward.

"What?"

"The coffee."

"What about it? It was cold."

"Dude, I just touched the cup. It was warm."

"Don't know what to tell you, Sam," Dean's expression was open and honest, "it tasted cold to me."

A few minutes later, Harriet returned with not only another coffee for Dean but their food. She plunked everything down on the table without a word and walked away.

Sam watched his brother's eyes light up as he took in the mound of scrambled eggs and home fries with sausage links nestled alongside. He turned his attention to his own breakfast—blueberry pancakes and a side of bacon—with enthusiasm. Foregoing syrup, he ran the side of his fork through the stack and shoveled a huge bite into his mouth. He just managed to swallow when he heard his brother's fork slam against his plate, accompanied by a muffled curse. He looked across the table.

"What?"

Dean grimaced and swallowed the food in his mouth, resisting the urge to spit it out. "It's cold. Everything—the eggs, the potatoes, the sausage—it's all cold. Dammit, what the hell kinda restaurant is this? I bet she did it on purpose."

While Dean looked around yet again for their waitress, Sam surreptitiously speared a sausage link, lifted it from the plate, and took a bite. It was hot. His brow pinched with worry, he called, "Dean—"

Exasperated, Dean swiveled his head, fixing his attention once more on his younger brother. "What!"

"Are you feeling okay?"

"Huh—yeah—yeah, I'm fine. Just pissed I can't seem to get a decent meal around this place."

"Dean, there's nothing wrong with your food. It's perfectly fine."

"Are you nuts? It's cold!"

"No, it's not. I just tasted it. Dude, you sure you're not sick?"

Dean's brow crinkled. "No. I'm okay." Even as he spoke, a violent shiver rippled through his tall, lean frame.

"I think we need to head back to the motel," Sam started to slide out of the booth, "Maybe you're just still cold from traipsing around in the woods half the night." A firm hand on his arm halted his exit.

"No, wait, Sam. You finish your food first."

The young hunter started to shake his head no, but Dean pointed a finger at his plate in silent command. He acquiesced but with a caveat of his own. "Only if you eat some of yours too."

"But…"

"I know. You've eaten worse though, right? And if I need it, you need it."

Dean frowned but nodded. Picking up his fork, he stabbed a hunk of crispy potato and shoved it into his mouth.

Sam ate his pancakes quickly, keeping a close eye on his brother who occasionally took a bite but mostly pushed the food around on his plate. His internal alarm bells clanged just a bit louder.

He stuffed the last bite into his mouth and slid from the booth while still chewing. "I'm ready."

Without hesitation, Dean shoved out from between the table and padded seat, dropping money on the table to cover both food and tip. The brothers exited the diner to find fat, fluffy snowflakes swirling steadily from the iron gray sky.

Sam used his arm to clean off the resultant accumulation on the front and back windows as Dean started the Impala. The wind, which had picked up a bit since they'd gone inside, merrily tossed fistfuls of frosty flakes in his face, where they clung to his brows, lashes, and small amount of fringy bangs poking from beneath his hood. He finished in a hurry and gratefully flung himself into the passenger seat.

The ride back to the Easy Living Motel was quiet. Sam, however, was well aware that his brother's shivering had picked up in frequency. As soon as the car stopped, he was out and opening the door, entering the room well in front of Dean.

By the time the older Winchester trudged into the motel room, Sam had the thermometer in his hand.

"What'd you have that out for?" grumbled Dean as he shrugged out of his coat and dropped it over the back of a chair.

"I wanna check and see if you're sick."

"Told ya I was fine." Dean sat on the edge of his bed.

"Uh huh. Your definition of fine and mine are two totally different things."

Dean waved a dismissive hand. "Whatever."

Taking that as permission, Sam pressed the thermometer in Dean's ear. When it beeped, he pulled it out and studied the display. "Huh."

"Lemme guess, 98.6, right?"

"Close. It's 98 even."

"So—normal."

"Yeah."

"See—told ya I wasn't sick." Dean rubbed his hands over his eyes. "Just tired. And cold. Probably 'cause we were up at two in the morning hiking through the snow." He pulled off his boots, wiggling his toes inside his damp socks before removing them as well.

"Well, we aren't doing anything. I'm just gonna do some more research on this hunt on the computer. Why don't you go back to sleep for awhile?"

"You know what, Sammy, _that_ sounds like a plan." He shoved up off the bed. "Right after I hit the head."

While Dean went to the restroom, the younger Winchester sat down at the round table and flicked the switch to boot up his laptop. Over the ping and whirl of the activated computer, Sam heard a couple of choice swear words from the bathroom and looked up when the door was flung open.

"Hope you're not planning on showering anytime soon, bro. There's no hot water in the bathroom."

Sam started to turn back to his computer but something about his brother caught his attention. He jumped up. "What'd you do to your hands?"

The hunter threw his younger brother an odd look. "Nothing. I just washed 'em after I took a piss."

Sam grabbed his brother's wrists and pulled his hands toward him. "Dean, they're bright red! In fact, they look almost scalded!"

Dean glanced down, noticing the redness for the first time. He wiggled his fingers and shrugged. "Nah. The water was cold." The hunter shivered and shuffled over to his bed, stretching out with a sigh.

"You'd be warmer if you got under the covers."

"Hmm?"

"I said you'd be warmer if you got under the covers."

"'kay." Dean agreed, but didn't move or open his eyes.

With a small huff, Sam strode to his own bed, pulled off the green-and-gold swirled comforter, and draped it over his prone sibling. Returning to the small table, he slumped down in the chair in front of the computer, but uneasiness continued to prickle at the back of his neck. Sam waited until Dean's breathing deepened, signaling he'd dropped off to sleep, before retrieving the thermometer once more. He carefully inserted the tip into Dean's ear. Just before it was due to beep, he withdrew the apparatus and peered at the display, brow creasing in puzzlement. _Ninety-seven point four. Lower even than a few minutes ago. Definitely no fever._

Silently vowing to keep an eye on his ailing-but-in-denial older sibling, Sam returned to the computer to continue his research into Claxton Lake and dead ice fishermen. The room descended into quiet save the tap-tap-tap at the keyboard and the rhythmic inhale and exhale of the hunter atop the bed.

More than an hour later, Sam sat back with a disgruntled sigh. With a full bladder screaming for relief, he stood and stretched, his gaze automatically locking on his sleeping sibling. Dean had curled onto his side and pulled the comforter tightly around himself, but Sam could see he was still shivering. Yanking the remaining covers off his bed, the younger man piled them on top of the trembling form. His brother moaned, mumbled, and rolled to his other side. Sam couldn't resist resting his palm on Dean's forehead for a second. _Still no sign of fever._ On the way to the restroom, Sam paused and turned the thermostat up a tick.

Finishing his business with a sigh of relief, Sam washed his hands and splashed some water on his face to chase away his own cobwebs of weariness. For a brief moment, he considered jumping in the shower for a brisk pick-me-up, but discarded the idea as soon as it entered his mind. Deciding a pot of coffee might do a better job anyway; he dried his hands on the small white towel hanging over the sink then pulled open the door.

A waft of bitter air stalled him just across the threshold and his gaze quickly searched out its origin. The motel room door stood wide open. Senses on full alert, Sam's eyes darted toward the nearest bed where his brother lay sleeping. Only he wasn't.

The bed was empty. The blankets a tangled heap on the floor.

And Dean was gone.

TBC…


	2. The Cold Takes Its Toll

Okay, I thought this story was going to be a two-shot. But now it looks like a three chapter story. I know this is a short chapter, but I hope everyone enjoys it anyway.

Vanessa

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"Shit!" Sam tore across the room and jammed his feet into his boots before grabbing his gun off the nightstand and tucking it at the small of his back. He was shoving his arms into the sleeves of his jacket as he jogged through the door into the landscape of arctic white where steamers of sparkling snow still undulated on chaotic currents of air. His gaze automatically sought out the bulk of the Impala, hoping that that had been his brother's destination, but her current haute couture mantle of glimmering white remained regrettably undisturbed.

His hazel eyes tracked first to the right then to the left, finally spying the indistinct indentations in the powdery snow. Plowing through the accumulation, his long legs and wide gait a distinct advantage, Sam quickly cleared the corner of the building, his feet punching into the crunchy snow. Peering ahead, he spied a tall, shadowy shape crossing the empty field next to the Easy Living.

"Dean!"

His brother neither wavered nor slowed in his steady march forward. Sam picked up the pace, closing the distance in mere moments. He reached out and grabbed his older brother's arm, hauling him to an abrupt stop.

"Dean! What the hell are you doing?"

The older Winchester didn't react other than to make a half-hearted attempt to pull away. Sam's tightened his fingers.

"C'mon, let's go back to the room."

"Gotta go to the warm place to lie down," mumbled Dean, staring ahead.

Sam tugged at Dean's arm. "Yeah, we have a warm place, dude. It's called a motel room. C'mon."

"No! Gotta go…gotta go to the warm place to lie down!" Suddenly, Dean was in motion, yanking his arm from Sam's grasp, roughly pushing him away, and plunging forward in the snow.

Caught by surprise, Sam rocked back on his heels. The loose snow under his feet shifted and the tall hunter fought to maintain his balance before plopping—with a startled gasp—denim-clad bottom first onto the ground. With nothing more than his pride bruised, Sam regained his feet on the slippery terrain and managed to catch up to Dean in a few inelegant strides. His fingers wrapped around his brother's wrist like an iron manacle, stopping him in his tracks.

"Hey…Dean, look at me."

When Dean made no move to comply, Sam firmly grasped his chin, turning his head until they were face-to-face. "Look at me."

Finally, Dean's distracted gaze locked with his. The cloudiness therein receded a bit. "Sam? Whaddya doin' here?"

"Could ask you the same thing, big brother."

"I-I was…I was…uh…lookin' for a place…some place to lie down."

"We already have a place, Dean."

"We do?"

"Yeah. The motel room. Why don't we go back there right now?"

"You're sure?"

"Yes, I'm sure. Come on." Sam wrapped an arm around his brother's shoulders, feeling the shudders rippling through his muscular frame. "That's it, let's just go back this way." He led Dean back toward the squat building.

After several steps, Dean slurred, "S-my? Wha—'m I so c-cold?"

"'Cause you're outside in the middle of a snowstorm with no coat and no shoes, dude."

"I am?"

"Yeah. But not for long." They rounded the corner of the building; their room door, their safe haven, up just ahead.

"'kay."

Sam stiff-armed the faded green door open and guided the shorter man inside. He dusted the accumulated snow from Dean's hair and shoulders before guiding him over to his recently-abandoned bed. He pushed Dean gently down on the edge of the mattress. He retrieved his duffle bag from the floor between the beds and pulled one of his hoodies from its depths. "Here, Dean, put this on. You'll feel better." He helped his brother lethargically maneuver into the warmer garment.

Dean blinked groggily. "'m tired."

"You look it." And he did. His face was milk white with dark circles ringing green eyes that were normally fiercely expressive but were now washed out and dull. His lips looked a shade duskier than usual. Sam's expression creased into a worried frown. "Why don't you lie down?" He waited for Dean to comply then gathered the jumble of blankets from the floor and arranged them haphazardly across his prone form. Sam once again picked up the thermometer and secured a reading. _Ninety-six point five._ Sam felt a shiver tremble through his body that had absolutely nothing to do with his recent excursion out into the cold. He eased down onto the foot of the bed.

He slipped out of his coat and toed off his boots while he waited for Dean to drift into a restless slumber. When he was sure his sibling was asleep, Sam commandeered his cell phone from its resting place near the computer, flipped it open, and scrolled through his Contacts list till he found the desired entry. With a sigh, he pressed "Send". The call was answered on the third ring.

"Singer."

"Hey, Bobby. It's Sam."

"Hey, kid, it's been awhile. What can I do for ya?"

Sam sighed into the phone. "It's Dean. Something weird's going on with him."

"What—you're just figuring that out now? Weird's that boy's middle name." The gruff older man's teasing fell flat, eliciting no answering chuckle from the other end of the phone. "All right. Tell me what's goin' on?"

"I dunno. I mean—I—I can't explain it. Sam pinched the bridge of his nose as he fought to organize his thoughts. "We—We're on this job—a vengeful spirit we think—you know, a simple salt-and-burn—and we did some reconnaissance in the woods in the middle of the night last night. We stopped for breakfast on the way back to the motel. Then he just started acting weird."

"Weird how?"

"He complained that his coffee and food were cold."

"Okay. And?"

"And they weren't. Not at all. Then I noticed he was shivering, and he complained of being cold which isn't like him. I—I thought at first that he was just getting sick, you know."

"Now you're convinced that's not all it is?"

"Not unless you've heard of a sick person who's temperature keeps _dropping_."

"Heh."

"It gets worse, Bobby. When we got back to the motel, he went to the bathroom. When he came out, he was bitching that there was no hot water. But his hands were bright red—nearly scalded." Sam paused for a second, glancing over his shoulder at his brother. "And then just now, I walked out of the room for a couple of minutes, and when I came back he was gone."

"Gone?"

"Yeah. He bugged out. I found him outside wandering around disoriented, coatless and barefoot, in the snow. Now he's on the bed, under all the covers I can get my hands on, and he's still shaking. Dammit, Bobby, I don't know what to do; I don't know what's wrong with him."

The gruff older hunter ran a hand down his face then smoothed his graying mustache and beard with his fingers. "Anything else you can tell me?" Bobby adjusted the trucker's hat on his head. "Anything unusual about this hunt you're on?"

"No, nothing. Over the last several years, there have been a number of disappearances. People just gone without a trace. Then in the last two months, a couple of outdoorsmen have disappeared and later been found dead. Drowned in Claxton Lake. We think it might be the spirit of an ice fisherman—a Don Castleman. That's all we have so far. I've no idea why or how this hunt could be connected to what's goin' on with Dean."

"Okay, listen. I've got a couple of ideas but I need to go check into a few things. I'll call ya back as quick as I can. You sit tight."

"Thanks, Bobby."

"Don't thank me yet. If I'm right, we're up against the clock and we don't have a lot of time. You keep an eye on that brother of yours."

TBC…


	3. The Cold is a Deadly Temptation

Okay--so Chapter 3 didn't turn out to be the last chapter. I guess I just have some weird aversion to writing long chapters. I'd rather get an update out there for everyone to, hopefully, enjoy.

Forgive me.

Ness

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Sam flipped his phone closed and rested it on the bed next to his leg. He watched his brother shiver and shake under the covers for a few moments before jumping up and moving to the computer, reluctant to sit and do nothing while waiting for Bobby to call back.

He pulled up his favorite search engine and went to work, hoping his research would be more successful now than it had been earlier when he thought their only problem was some vengeful spirit. Unfortunately, it apparently wasn't his day for research since he came up blank with everything he tried. When his cell phone rang a half hour later, he gladly abandoned the laptop. He lunged for the phone and snatched it off the bed.

"Bobby?"

"Yeah, it's me."

"Please tell me you've got something."

"I do. Near as I can tell, you guys managed to kick up a next of Frost Flits."

"Huh?"

"Before I get into it, go take a look at Dean. Look around his lower legs, around the ankle area. Tell me if you find anything."

Sam pulled the covers away from his sleeping brother, directing his attention to Dean's denim clad legs. He reached out and grabbed a hold of his brother's left foot. Dean's toes immediately curled downward and the foot was unceremoniously yanked from his grasp.

Dean, roused from sleep at the irritating touch, mumbled. "Mmmm-noooo. No touchin'."

For a split second, Sam was confused by the reaction then his mouth quirked up in a ghost of a smile. He had forgotten how ticklish Dean's feet were. As kids that was the one secret weapon Sam had if his brother got the better of him during roughhousing. He would tickle Dean's feet until the older boy was gasping for air and begging for him to stop.

The tall hunter moved the phone away from his mouth and soothed, "It's okay, Dean. I just need to check something, okay?" The young hunter reached out and took hold of the foot again, grasping it firmly as Dean tried once more to pull away, absently noting as he did so that Dean's feet were icy cold and mentally scolding himself for not thinking to put socks on his brother's bare feet when the two of them returned from their sojourn outside in the snow. Sam pushed the damp denim part way up Dean's leg and turned the foot this way and that but saw nothing untoward. He repeated the process with Dean's right foot, steadfastly ignoring his brother's disgruntled mumbling and complaining. This time Sam discovered a myriad of tiny red marks, almost like a rash, on the inside of Dean's ankle. He reached out and rubbed his fingers over the crimson marks.

"Okay, I found something, Bobby. It's all these little red marks, like pinpricks, all over his inside ankle. What's that mean?" He heard Bobby sigh on the other end of the phone.

"What? C'mon, Bobby."

"Like I said, I thought maybe he'd kicked up a next of Frost Flits. I'm afraid you've just confirmed it."

"So what are these 'Frost Flits'?"

"Frost Flits is the common name for 'em. Their original name is more or less unpronounceable."

"So what are they?"

"Are you familiar with the creatures known as flits from the Old World?"

"No, not really."

"They're tiny nearly invisible winged creatures. Smaller 'en fairies. Old World flits are basically harmless. These are like them only…"

"Only not harmless. Is that what you're telling me?"

"Sam, these damn things are rare. Last I knew, stirrin' up a nest of 'em is almost unheard of. But if you're unlucky enough to do so, these creatures swarm. They bite their prey; inject them with venom, leaving behind tiny red pinprick wounds."

"So wait—you're telling me Dean's sick from some freakin' tiny supernatural mosquitoes!" Sam couldn't stop the amused chuckle that escaped from between his lips.

"Don't laugh, son. Vicious doesn't begin to describe these things. The venom spreads through the body, dropping its core temperature lower and lower. It causes disorientation and sensory disruption. But ultimately, the venom enables the Flits to lure their prey back to the nest where it lies down, mistakenly seeking warmth, and dies."

"Oh, God."

"It gets worse. Once the prey is down, but before it's completely dead, they strip the flesh off the body right down to the bare bones, Sam. They're like tiny winged piranhas."

Sam swallowed past the lump in his throat with difficulty. "So earlier, when Dean took off…"

"He was likely heading back to the nest, I expect."

"Shit," Sam growled into the phone. "One thing I don't get, Bobby. We were both out there in the woods. How come I'm not infected?"

"Ya must have split up at some point. These Frost Flits aren't picky and they're insatiably ravenous once they're riled up."

"But we didn't. I was there with Dean the whole…damn."

"What?"

"There were a brief couple of moments. I—I had to pee. While I stopped at a tree, Dean walked up ahead a little ways. It must've happened then."

Bobby could hear guilt coloring the boy's statement. "Don't feel bad, Sam. You couldn't have known. Dean wouldn't have known. No one can see these nests. Dean woulda never even realized he'd been bit. There's no initial pain involved."

Sam cleared his throat. "So how do I help Dean?"

"The nest has to be destroyed and quick. Once the creatures are dead and the nest is gone, Dean should recover in a few days."

"Tell me what I have to do to destroy it."

"You don't."

"What? C'mon, Bobby, I don't have time for riddles!"

"Easy, boy. I said YOU ain't gonna destroy it. I am."

"That's ridiculous! Just tell me what I need to do and I can go out right now and get it done."

"Sam, shut your yap for a second and listen. You can't do it. You need to stay with your brother. Trust me on this, he's gonna need you there."

"I don't understand."

"I'll explain when I get there. I'm already on my way."

"Already on your way? How'd you know where we are?"

"I can hear, ya know. You mentioned Claxton Lake. I just pointed the car in that direction. Where are you exactly?"

"We're at the Easy Living Motel. It's off of Route 11 in Sauk Centre, Minnesota."

"I should be there in three—three and a half—hours. Sit tight. And do whatever you can to keep that brother of yours warm. It ain't gonna be easy, kid."

After hitting the "End" button, Sam tossed the cell phone aside, Bobby's warning still echoing in his ear. The hunter bent over and rummaged through Dean's duffel bag until he found the least threadbare pair of socks he could find and worked his brother's icy feet into them.

"There. Does that feel better?"

Dean opened his eyes. "Hmm?"

"Having socks on your feet? Does it feel better?"

Dean blinked in that general direction. "I have socks on?" A shiver coursed through him. "Sam? Why is it so cold? Are we still outside?"

"No, no we're not outside, Dean. You're just sick."

"I am?"

Sam rearranged the covers over Dean, tucking them in as if Dean were a five year old. "I'll explain everything when you're feeling better, dude. You wanna try to go back to sleep or would you like some coffee?"

Dean perked up a bit at the magic word, the fog in his eyes clearing slightly. "Coffee?" The barest hint of excitement colored his voice.

"Coffee it is then. Maybe it'll help warm you up."

Keeping his manner upbeat, Sam walked to the kitchenette, filled the basket with the complimentary coffee grounds, and measured out the correct amount of water, all the while steadfastly ignoring the fact that Dean's skin was pale to the point of translucence, the circles encompassing his eyes were now a dark purple, and his lips were a shade more bluish than they'd been just a little while ago.

His hands shook as he poured the water into the coffee maker.

TBC…


	4. The Cold Whispers Dirty Lies

Seriously, as it turns out, this story just has a mind of its own...

Hope everyone enjoys this latest update!

Ness

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The younger Winchester brother pushed his trembling fingertips against his eyes, listening to the soft gurgle of hot water steeped in the oil and essence of ground coffee beans dribbling into the pot, while trying to ease the shaking of his hands. A rustle of movement behind him caught his attention, and he spun around. Through the decorative dividing spindles, Sam saw his brother stand on shaky legs and weave his way toward the door. He tore around the divider and planted himself in front of his older sibling.

"Dean, where're you goin'?"

Dean sidestepped drunkenly, only to be blocked again by the taller form. "J-Just gonna go some place warm, that's all."

"It's warm here."

"Is not! Freezin' in here!" Dean, muddied green gaze fixed straight ahead, attempted another sidestep and again found a gigantic obstacle in his path. Realizing his evasive efforts were getting him nowhere, the shorter man dropped his shoulder and shoved forward like a much-touted linebacker on a football team.

Fortunately, he hadn't the strength to put much force behind the rather clumsy move, and Sam easily caught him by the shoulders. "Dean! You can't go anywhere, okay? You've gotta stay right here."

"No! Wanna get warm," Dean struggled weakly in Sam's firm hold. "Please—I'm just c-c-cold—wanna go somewhere and get warm." Dean's voice cracked and he turned his gaze toward Sam, his expression child-like in its desperation. "Please—Sammy, please lemme go!"

Sam tightened his hold on his brother's shoulders and gave Dean a little shake. "Dude, listen to me. Despite how you feel, it's warm right here in the motel. I promise. I'm getting you some coffee. Can you smell it? It's brewing right now. Dean, can you smell it?"

Dean stopped struggling, gave a little sniff, and nodded once.

"Okay. Good. Now if you'll just get back in bed, I'll pour you a cup. It's ridiculously strong—just the way you like it."

The sad little piece of bribery worked. To the younger man's relief, Dean crawled back on his bed without further resistance and propped himself against the headboard.

While waiting for the coffee pot to finish its odd alien-in-its-final-death-throes-sounding bubbling and hissing, Sam approached the dresser in the room and gave it a shove, pleased to find it free-standing and not bolted down. Pushing and heaving it across the room until it partially blocked the door, Sam grunted in satisfaction and straightened, working the kinks from his back and wiping a hand down his now-sticky face as the heat of the room caused a coat of sweat to blossom from his exertion.

He turned to find his brother watching him through heavy-lidded eyes, a puzzled frown on his face. "I—Is something trying to get in?" His hand darted nervously toward his pillow.

"No!" Sam debated for a moment whether or not to tell Dean the truth. "It's—It's to keep you from going out."

Dean's brow furled. "I'm not allowed out in the sunshine?"

"The sun's not shining out there, Dean. In fact, it's snowing, don't you remember?"

"It is?"

Sam huffed out a breath, knowing this conversation was going nowhere fast. "Hey, guess what—the coffee's done. You ready for your cup?"

Dean sighed an agreement and tilted his head back against the headboard. He wound the blankets tighter around himself, wishing that his teeth would quit chattering.

(SN) (SN) (SN)

Bobby cursed and leaned forward in the driver's seat of his Chevelle, peering through the swirling white curtain that was the world outside his car window. Regrettably, driving east as he was to get to Sauk Centre, he was heading right into the inclement weather the Winchester boys were experiencing. _Ahh, for God's sake, c'mon. I'm racing against time and weather delays are not part of my freakin' rescue plan, dammit._ His white-knuckled grip on the steering wheel tightened, and he pressed down a little on the accelerator, hoping his brand-new snow tires lived up to their fancy name and advertising.

(SN) (SN) (SN)

"Here." Sam sat on the edge of the bed and offered the plastic mug to the older Winchester. He watched Dean reach out and wrap his hands around it but quickly realized his brother was trembling too much to get the vessel to his mouth without spilling the warm liquid all over himself on the way. "Lemme help." He held the cup to Dean's lips.

Dean took a drink and immediately his mouth curled into a moue of distaste. "It's cold. Why'd you make cold coffee?"

"It's not cold. It just tastes like it 'cause your sick. Drink some more."

"Uh uh. Don't like your frou-frou iced coffee things."

"Dean, even though it tastes cold, I think its actual warmth will still make you feel better once you drink it." His brother was nothing if not stubborn even when he was seriously ill. His mouth remained closed.

Inspiration struck, and Sam pulled the mug back. "Hey, I have an idea." He jumped off the bed and walked to Dean's jacket hanging over the back of the chair. He reached into the inside pocket and extracted the flask he knew was kept there. Sam poured a tiny amount of liquor into the mug and returned to Dean's side. "Try this." He once again held the mug to Dean's lips and waited for his brother to take a sip. "Better?"

Dean licked his lips, feeling the lingering tingle of the smidgen of booze. "Kinda."

"Let's finish it then. Maybe you'll feel like goin' back to sleep afterward."

The older Winchester nodded off before he ever saw the bottom of the cup.

(SN) (SN) (SN)

Bobby sighed with relief and finally loosened his death grip on the wheel as the steady snow abruptly stopped signaling that, for the time being anyway, he'd left the bad weather behind. Though at a slower pace than he'd wanted, the Chevelle had steadily chewed up the miles despite Mother Nature's challenge, and Bobby was grateful. He patted the dashboard affectionately. _Good girl._

The grizzled hunter glanced at his watch then down at the speedometer, finally nudging the car up to well beyond the speed limit.

(SN) (SN) (SN)

After Dean fell asleep, Sam got up and filled a mug with coffee for himself, resisting the rare temptation to add some liquor to sooth his own frazzled nerves. He needed to be alert and vigilant to keep an eye on his brother. Too restless to sit, he paced around the room, periodically glancing at his watch, and twice stopping to check Dean's temperature. Each time proved that, despite his best efforts, it was still dropping. His body temperature was now hovering at 95.5. The young hunter ran a frustrated hand through his hair. He knew anything below 95.0 would become dangerous.

After another useless trip around the room, Sam stalked to his duffel bag. From it's depths, he extracted another hoodie—an old one they'd picked up at a secondhand shop that was a little big even on him—and a pair of navy heavyweight wool hiking socks—one of three pairs Jess had given him before they went on their one of several trips to hike the Rattlesnake Canyon Trail in Joshua Tree Park. These had a hole in one toe and were a little worn at the heels, but it was the only pair he had left of the three, and Sam refused to get rid of them for a number of reasons. Right this second, he was more than grateful for his sentimentality.

Sam pulled the wool socks on over the ones already encasing Dean's feet. Getting the second hoodie on his sleeping brother took a little more skill and ingenuity if not outright brute strength. By the time he was finished, Sam was exceedingly grateful that the second hooded sweatshirt had a zippered front. He laid Dean back down on the mattress gently and tucked the blankets back around him for what seemed like the hundredth time that day.

That done Sam stripped off his long-sleeved shirt, leaving him clad in a thin gray t-shirt and threadbare jeans. He moved to the wall and turned the thermostat up yet another notch on his way to the kitchenette. He emptied the dregs of the coffee into his mug, added more powdered creamer and sugar, and started another pot. After grabbing his laptop off the table, Sam stretched out on the bed next Dean determined to find something to do to pass the time while waiting for Bobby before worry drove him completely out of his mind.

TBC…


	5. The Cold Laughs at Lessons Learned

And on and on we go... :-)

Please enjoy!

Ness

* * *

Sam awakened abruptly from the light doze he'd unknowingly fallen into despite the amount of coffee sloshing, and hence the resultant caffeine racing, through his system. He sat up with a jolt, his eyes immediately seeking out and locking on the shaking figure buried beneath the covers next to him. He breathed a deep sigh of relief that Dean had was still there beside him, while at the same time cursing himself for having fallen asleep in the first place. Sam reached out and pressed a palm to Dean's forehead, noting with dismay that his skin was frigid.

Unsure what had awakened him, he let his gaze roam to each corner of the room, jumping when an uneven thumping came at the door. _Bobby!_ _That must be what woke me up._

Pushing the laptop aside, Sam scrambled off the bed, automatically palming his gun. He shoved the dresser out of the way and checked the peephole to confirm the identity of his visitor before finally opening the door. "Hey, Bobby. Man, am I glad to see you!" Sam laid the gun down on the dresser that now sat askew.

Bobby Singer quickly stepped over the threshold, arms laden, kicking the door shut with his foot. "Holy Mother of God, boy, it's like a sauna in here."

"I know." Sam plucked at his damp t-shirt. Faint vees of sweat decorated the front and back of the cotton material.

"Bet it ain't helpin' though, is it? Here." Bobby shoved his armload at Sam who raised an eyebrow in silent question. "Blankets."

Sam accepted the offering with a nod of thanks and spread the three additional throws across the bed. "Nothing seems to be helping, Bobby. Last time I checked, his temp was 95 even. So tell me—how're you gonna destroy these supernatural insects?"

"Insects hell. Think Tinkerbell but tinier, a hell of a lot scarier, and a darn sight more deadly."

"So how do you kill them?"

"Well, for now, let's just say I'm gonna get 'em drunk and leave it at that."

"Huh?"

"I'll explain later. Right now, I think I should get a move on. That boy over there sure ain't gettin' any better. I've got everything I need out in the car. Now I just need to know about where you were in those woods. Doesn't necessarily need to be exact—general vicinity will do."

"I can do better than that," the taller man retrieved the computer from the bed, "I can give you the coordinates of where those last two bodies were found. We were about halfway between the two locations, heading toward the water, when the bad weather settled in and we decided to call it off until tonight. It was about ten minutes before that that I…uh…that I stopped to…you know." Though it was totally ridiculous, Sam felt his cheekbones pinken with a tinge of embarrassment. He looked down at the keyboard, shoved his wild chestnut bangs out of his eyes, and tapped a few keys before flipping the laptop around so Bobby could see the screen.

After scrounging for a piece of scrap paper, the older man copied the appropriate information from the computer screen. "That'll get me where I need to be. Lemme have one of the keys to the room."

Sam grabbed one of the keys off the nightstand and handed it over.

Bobby was quiet for a couple of minutes, fingers tugging nervously at his graying beard, as he studied the eldest Winchester brother thoughtfully before turning and heading toward the door. "Hey, kid?" he tossed over his shoulder.

"Yeah?"

"Your daddy taught you wilderness survival skills, right?"

"Well, yeah. Of course."

"Figured that was a stupid question as soon as I asked it. Anyway, I'd start thinking about employing those skills right quick." Without another word, the seasoned hunter, full of true grit and determination, left the motel room.

For several minutes after Bobby left, Sam stood stock still, slightly confused, mind racing to recall those long ago lessons. The exacting, demanding, gruff sound of his father's commanding Marine voice echoed hollowly in his ears.

_Okay, listen up good, boys. You need to remember this stuff—it's important. (1) Get out of the wind, snow, or rain; (2) Ditch any clothing which has become wet from rain or snow—even sweat. And don't forget—50% of body heat loss is through the head. Keep it dry and cover it; and (3) Create body heat. Drink something hot, eat something, and if you have to, use skin-to-skin contact to assist in warming the other person up. Got it?_

Understanding dawned.

Sam stripped off his t-shirt. He slipped out of his jeans which were still damp from his earlier ass-first tumble in the snow and donned a pair of gray sweatpants. He also changed into a pair of completely dry socks. Bare-chested but perfectly comfortable given the excessive heat in the room, Sam approached the bed. Stripping Dean down to his boxer briefs was like trying to yank the clothes off a giant, recalcitrant rag doll—all arms and legs…and hands and elbows. The initial movements roused his brother enough for him to be whiney, belligerent, and totally uncooperative—all worrisome signs of the advancing hypothermia.

A second elbow to his cheekbone had Sam grunting in frustration. "Dammit, Dean! I know you don't understand right now, but this is for your own good!" The younger man immediately regretted his outburst and murmured an apology. He quickly finished pulling the t-shirt over his brother's head, rubbing the red marks from the friction away with the palm of his hand. Next, he fought against weakly batting hands, finally managing to undo the button and lower the zipper on Dean's jeans. Moving to stand at the foot of the bed, Sam took hold of the hem at each ankle and pulled, happy when the worn denim slid down without much more effort.

With Dean now in nothing but his boxer briefs and the two pairs of socks, Sam retrieved his black watchman's cap from his jacket pocket and settled it on top of his brother's head. Truly, he looked all kinds of ridiculous, but Sam didn't care. Not if it saved Dean's life.

"C'mon, bro, sit up for a second." He helped Dean sit up and slid behind him on the bed. _Oh, God, dude, you're gonna have a field day with me for this, aren't you?_ Sam rested a leg on each side of his brother's hips and pulled him backward slightly, propping him against his own chest. It was like embracing a giant iceberg. Sam felt a shiver race up his spine as his own body heat leached away at contact with his brother's frigid skin.

"S'mmy?" came Dean's confused whisper.

"Sshhh, it's okay. Just relax. Go back to sleep." Sam reached down and drew the heavy pile of blankets up around them both. _I can already hear the shit you're gonna give me about this. But, that's okay—as long as you're here to do it—I honestly don't care._

"Nev'r gonna be warm 'gain, S'mmy. Ma'be I'm a-al-already dead."

Dean's whispered lament both broke Sam's heart and sent a spike of panic through his system. He tightened his hold and rested his chin on top of his brother's head. "Don't say that, Dean. Bobby's here. He knows what to do to fix this. He's _gonna_ fix this. I promise."

(SN) (SN) (SN)

Bobby pulled the Chevelle over on the side of the road. Up ahead there was a small break, a tiny alcove, amongst the trees. He eased forward and slowly backed into the spot. Pocketing the keys, Bobby jogged around the back of the car and popped the trunk.

From its depths, he pulled out two larger jars filled with clear fluids, a smaller jar filled with a deep amber substance, and a battered metal stock pot. Bobby tucked those away in a large black duffel bag. Reaching back in the trunk, he selected a few more necessary items and a handful of salt-filled rounds and tossed them in the bag as well before zipping it closed.

The bearded hunter checked the inside pocket of his coat, assuring the presence of his flask of holy water. Satisfied it was right where it should be, he adjusted his trucker's cap, grabbed his sawed-off shotgun, and slammed the trunk closed. Tightly gripping the shotgun in one hand, Bobby slung the supply-filled duffel over his opposite shoulder and took off at a slow jog, heading deeper into the woods.

TBC…


	6. The Cold Gets a Taste of Victory

Okay, I'll give you all fair warning--I'm a bad girl 'cause there's an evil cliffy up ahead...

Enjoy! hehe

V

* * *

Sam drew his knees up and let his long arms loosely drape across Dean's upper arms, effectively anchoring the tremendous layer of blankets around them both. It wasn't exactly comfortable, but Sam was beyond willing to suffer some discomfort if it meant helping Dean. After a few minutes, he felt his brother's head loll against his shoulder as the older man slipped back into unnatural slumber. Sam's own chest was starting to feel icy wherever there was skin-to-skin contact.

Nervous and swamped with worry, Sam longed to pace or fidget to combat the tension; he settled instead for chewing at the already-abused thumbnail on his left hand. After a few seconds, he flinched and pulled his thumb away from his mouth, watching as a bright bead of blood welled in the corner of his jagged cuticle and slipped downward, ruled by gravity. He wiped the blood away on the blanket and reluctantly abandoned that particular pursuit.

Desperate, Sam began to talk to his brother, needing the connection—needing the release—needing something—despite the fact that Dean was asleep. "Hey, Dean, remember when Dad first started teaching us wilderness survival skills? He rattled off that numbered list about hypothermia and all that other stuff, made us memorize it. Then he took us out to that state park in the middle of a snowstorm and 'abandoned' us? I think I was eleven or twelve. Man, I can remember being so scared. But you—you were so calm about it all. You kept everything together the whole night. And then later we found out that Dad hadn't really abandoned us," Sam snorted, "at least not that first time. He'd set it up somehow so that he could keep an eye on us without our knowing. I never did quite figure out how. Bet you figured it out though…"

Sam continued his desperate monologue, the deep timber of his voice drowning out the shallow, raspy sound of Dean's breathing.

(SN) (SN) (SN)

Bobby paused in his trek for a moment, double-checking the coordinates he'd scribbled down on the now-crumpled piece of paper. Satisfied that he was close to his destination, he veered slightly to the right and continued on between the trees. He stopped ten minutes later in a small clearing and looked around. Satisfied with what he saw, Bobby cleared away a small section of snow with his foot, dropped the duffel bag on the ground at the base of a tree, and carefully leaned the shotgun against its trunk.

The first item he pulled from the duffel was the dented and battered stockpot; it's shine long since gone. He rested it in a small hollow of snow. Crouching down by the stockpot, Bobby extracted the two jars filled with clear liquid and unscrewed each of their lids. He poured the contents of each into the pot simultaneously, his eyes watering a little as the fumes wafted upward. The grizzled hunter rubbed his hands together, flexing his fingers against the encroaching cold before reaching in and grabbing the jar full of the deep amber substance. After prying off the lid, he tipped the jar, waiting impatiently for the cold-thickened, viscous, sweet-smelling concoction to empty into the pot. "C'mon, c'mon. Pour already, dammit." He gave the jar a hard shake. The amber substance plopped into the waiting liquid with a resounding splash, forcing Bobby to duck out of the way to avoid being splashed. When the jar was mostly empty, Bobby tossed down next to the other emptied containers.

A rustling in the trees off to his right caught his attention and Bobby stood, automatically reaching for the waiting shotgun. Standing stock still and fully alert, scanning the area with an experienced eye, the hunter saw more nothing untoward than a bird fluttering its wings up on a high branch. When several minutes passed without further recurrence of the noise, Bobby set the shotgun near his feet and got back to work.

He stirred the ingredients in the stockpot with an old wooden spoon—one specially made from Bethlehem olive wood that being the holiest tree in the Holy Land. While stirring, he added 12 drops of holy water—one for each of the Apostles according to the lore he'd read earlier—from his flask. When he was done blending the mixture, Bobby tapped the spoon on the side of the pot and swished it in the snow for several seconds to clean off the residue before dropping it back in his handy-dandy all-purpose hunter's duffel bag. The empty jars, lids tightly re-secured, followed. He returned the flask to his inside coat pocket.

Leaving the stockpot in its current resting place, Bobby picked up the black bag and his sawed-off and trudged away through the powdery snow, coming to a stop under another tree roughly 12 feet away from the concoction-filled container.

And now, as much as he hated the fact, all Bobby could do was wait.

(SN) (SN) (SN)

"Man, Dean, you should have really had a chance to get to know Jess," Sam murmured. He'd reached his limit of tolerance on talking about their Dad and his many lessons and had moved on to stories from his college days at Stanford. His memories of Jessica had now grown poignant and sweet, the sharp edge of agony dulled by time and circumstance. "I really am sorry now for keeping her a secret from you. You would have loved lots of things about her, but I bet the one thing you would have loved the most was the fact that she could cook. I mean, really cook." The tall hunter paused for a moment and stretched out his left leg, easing the cramp that was forming in his calf. After flexing his foot up and down for several moments and digging his fingers into the forming knot, he resumed talking, ignoring the fact that his voice was starting to grow hoarse. "You know, when we first started dating, she was taking a Chinese cooking class. The first time she invited me over for dinner, she made Cashew Chicken which was great but the best thing was the appetizer—Shrimp Toast. I'd never had anything like it. It was crazy good. She even got me addicted to that Oolong tea they serve. After that class, Jess went on to an Italian cooking class, and I think even a German one if I remember right. But that Chinese stuff they taught her was my favorite, I think. And, wow, could she ever bake. Her specialty was chocolate chip cookies. She had this special ingredient—always claimed when asked that it was 'love'—never did find out what it really was. She made those the night she…" Sam shook his head. "Nevermind."

Sam felt Dean shift slightly and moan. It seemed as if his shivering had slowed, and for a brief moment Sam was hopeful. He leaned over and grabbed the thermometer off the nightstand, activating it and sticking it in his brother's ear in one smooth motion. _Ninety-four point seven._ Sam's heart sank, and he tightened his arms around his older sibling. "Hang on, Dean. Please hang on." _God, Bobby, ya gotta hurry, man._

(SN) (SN) (SN)

Bobby shifted his stance for the umpteenth time and stomped his feet as the cold began to work against him. He glanced at his watch then fixed his eyes back on the stockpot. "C'mon, ya little flying bastards. Where the hell are you?" Bobby growled, "Come and drink your damned fill. I swear it's a damn sight better than it's better than communion wine."

Had he not been staring so closely, Bobby might have missed it at first. A tiny glow—like a lightning bug but bigger—was hovering directly over the liquid-filled pot. The more the creature partook of the liquid, the more it glowed. Soon the hunter could vaguely make out its human-like shape and the gossamer wings attached to its back. A second and a third Frost Flit joined the first. "That's it you vicious little sons-a-bitches. Come and get it."

A faint rustle off to his left and a blast of colder-than-cold air was all the warning Bobby had when he suddenly was yanked off his feet. Gasping as he hit face first in the snow, the hunter twisted his body and looked up, gaze locking on the twisted, rotted, maggot-ridden, gray countenance of Don Castleman, dead ice fisherman extraordinaire. Before he could bring the shotgun to bear, the spirit tightened the hold he had on Bobby's ankle and began to drag him toward the lake.

Grunting and cursing as debris nicked and scratched at his face, Bobby groped for something to grab onto to stop his unwelcome journey through the trees. The seeking fingers of his left hand finally closed around the branch of a recently downed tree, and he clamped down hard, crying out as his muscles and joints absorbed the tremendous jolt. The move had slowed his forward momentum enough that Bobby was able to roll sideways and swing the shotgun up and let loose with a load of rock salt. "Oh no you don't. I'm not out here to take care of you, you bastard." It hit Castleman in the center of his chest. With an unearthly screech, he flickered and disappeared from sight.

Bobby spared no time getting his breath back before he was up on his feet and running back toward the small clearing. Skidding to a stop in front of his duffel, he reached in and yanked out a container of salt, quickly pouring it in a circle around him. Bobby closed the circle just in time as he was once again staring to the gaping maw of the spirit's elongated mouth as it materialized in front of him then screamed in rage at being thwarted. The hunter sighed in relief and unloaded his second round of rock salt. "Go away and stay away, ya bastard."

He turned his attention back to the stockpot, pleased to see the number of glowing bodies had increased considerably. Many of them were flying in lazy, twirling, circular patterns, wobbling up and down, but hovering directly over the stockpot. Some had crashed to the snow around the pot. A few dozen more began to glow as he watched. Bobby waited and watched as the congregation grew; inexorably drawn to the enticing liquid. After fifteen or so minutes passed, the number of new arrivals began to dwindle and eventually stopped altogether. Gradually all the now-glowing Frost Flits tumbled earthward, most landing in the stockpot which was now about two-thirds empty. He waited another ten minutes to be on the safe side before stepping out of the salt circle. On alert for the ghost's return, Bobby hurried over to the stockpot. He quickly scooped up all the Flits on the ground and dumped them in the container.

Running back to the safety of the salt circle, Bobby reached into his bag and extracted the final item he needed. He turned the egg-shaped grenade around in his hand several times. It was modified to be similar to a police-issue flash/bang device with lots of flash and very little bang. Bobby pulled the pin and tossed the grenade right smack in the middle of the stockpot, his years of playing horseshoes as a kid paying off in a big way. He ducked behind the tree next to him. A second or two passed before the grenade exploded in a spectacular ball of flame, taking the stockpot and all its occupants with it. Stockpot shrapnel and gooey Frost Flit remains struck the surrounding trees, the latter hitting with miniscule wet splats against the rough bark.

(SN) (SN) (SN)

"…and I know you don't like hiking but, seriously man, the Rattlesnake Canyon Trail is cool." Sam's voice was cracking and squeaking, reduced to a near whisper from the non-stop talking and yet he continued on, "But I really think you'd like the hike to 49 Palms Oasis—all these palm trees and pools of sparking water—it's not that strenuous, and it's something to see, that's for…"

Sam stopped mid-sentence when he felt Dean suddenly stop shivering. A heavy shudder worked its way through his brother's body from toe to head and a gasping exhale whooshed past Dean's blue lips. There was no corresponding inhale; in fact all movement ceased, and everything in Sam froze with a dreaded realization.

Dean was no longer breathing.

TBC…


	7. The Cold Reluctantly Admits Defeat

Well, here it is--the last chapter. I'm really sad to see this one go. I was having so much fun writing it.

I hope everyone enjoys and that the story leaves everyone satisfied at the end.

Many blessings to all of you who have faithfully read this tale.

Vanessa

* * *

_No-no-no-no-no-no-no-no-no-no-no!_

Sam's own breath came in panicked bursts as he grasped his brother's shoulders tightly and gave him a hard shake. "Dean!" He pushed Dean's torso forward and frantically twisted and angled around until he could slip out from behind Dean's limp body. Kneeling on the bed, Sam roughly pushed the blankets aside and gently laid his brother flat, pressing shaky fingers to his neck seeking a pulse. When he found one—far too thready and weak but still there—the hot tears that trembled on his eyelashes succumbed to gravity and rolled down his wan cheeks, dripping onto Dean's bare chest.

"No fucking way are you doing this, you hear me?" growled Sam. He tilted Dean's head back and lifted his chin to keep his airway open. Pinching Dean's nose shut, Sam leaned forward and sealed his lips over the dull blue ones. He gave a slow breath, watching to see if Dean's chest rose. When nothing happened, he pulled away and listened for an outflow of air which never came. Sam re-tilted Dean's head and tried again. His second attempt met with more success, and Sam gave two slow breaths before stopping to check for a pulse. It was still there. A lackadaisical throb beneath his fingertips. "C'mon, come ON, GOD DAMMIT!" But his older brother, stubborn ass that he was, still refused to engage in spontaneous respiration. Sam leaned forward once more. His world narrowed to one critical task.

_One breath every five seconds. One breath every five seconds. _

_Onebreatheveryfiveseconds.  
__**One-one thousand…  
**__Onebreatheveryfivesec  
__**Two-one thousand…  
**__Onebreatheveryfive  
__**Three-one thousand…  
**__Onebreathevery  
__**Inhale…four-one thousand…  
**__Onebreath  
__**Five-one thousand…  
**__Breathe_

_Onebreath  
__Onebreath  
__One…_

Somewhere in the room a cell phone began to ring, its ring tone haunting in its merriness. Sam heard it as though from a great distance. The music cut off abruptly as the call was turfed to voice mail.

(SN) (SN) (SN)

Allowing only a split second to savor the victory, Bobby watched the flames, big and small, peter out then fished his cell phone out and speed dialed Sam. Expecting to hear one very relieved hunter answer at the other end, Bobby frowned—worry dragging his brows together—when it rang several times before the youngest Winchester's deep-timbered voice prompted him to leave a voice mail.

"Sam, it's done. I'm heading back your way."

He bent and hauled up the nearly empty duffel bag, slinging the webbed strap over his shoulder. Before leaving the safety of the salt circle, Bobby reloaded his sawed-off with fresh cartridges.

Shotgun firmly in hand, the wary hunter stepped across the protective white line, alert for the return of the rage-filled ghost of the luckless ice fisherman. Following the path he'd struck earlier through the blanket of snow, Bobby started for the Chevelle at a slow jog, his boots kicking up small plumes of white.

Prepared or not, the ghost of Don Castleman materializing directly in front of him had Bobby skidding to a less than graceful halt mere inches from the flickering gray-mottled and desiccated apparition. With no room to bring the gun to bear, he was a sitting duck and the spirit took full advantage, using preternatural strength to heave the hapless hunter between a stand of trees. For once, Bobby's luck held and he landed somewhat gently, though face first, in a variegated mound of fresh fluff. Using his momentum to his advantage, he rolled twice and brought the shotgun up, his finger seeking and finding the trigger just in time. The loud boom of the gun knocked snow from the tips of the tree branches, and Castleman flickered, faded, wavered, flickered again, and finally disappeared.

"Yeah, how about that," muttered Bobby, spitting snow and slowly regaining his feet, "I still ain't got time for your bullshit, dammit." He bent low and retrieved his trucker's cap, yanking it back onto his head.

Bobby scraped a hand down his face, flicking snow off his beard, and took off once more. He made it back to the Chevelle without a return visit from Claxton Lake's resident ghost and for that he was mighty grateful. He quickly stowed his bag and shotgun in the trunk and threw himself behind the wheel. Bobby pulled out his cell phone, dialing with one hand while turning the key with the other. Sam's cell still went unanswered worrying the surrogate uncle to no end. He cursed and thrust the car into gear, stomping on the accelerator. Anxiety nipped at his taillights. He dialed another number and raised the phone to his ear. It was answered on the first ring. "Caeden? Bobby Singer. Listen, how close are you to Sauk Centre, Minnesota? Uh huh. Good—that's good. I've got a job for you…"

(SN) (SN) (SN)

Sam eased back once again and checked for spontaneous respiration. Still finding no chest rise, his fingers scrambled to find the pulse. Frustration and fear warred for dominance, and Sam slammed a fist into the mattress. "I'm not giving up," the younger man yelled, "You here me, Dean? I'm not fucking giving up so you might as well fucking BREATHE." He sealed his mouth over his brother's and continued with rescue breaths.

Awareness crept back slowly. There was an odd tingling then a pressure in his chest as air was forced into his lungs. It didn't exactly hurt, but it was damned uncomfortable and Dean squirmed under the assault. The warm obstruction over his mouth and nose immediately fell away. He sucked in a small breath and coughed weakly.

"Dean?"

"Mmmm." The older man's attempt at an answer came out more like a soft moan. His eyelids felt weighted down. In fact, his entire body felt heavy.

"Dean, thank God you're alive." A sniffle accompanied the small prayer.

The words were barely above a hoarse whisper and likely not really meant for his ears, but they had the immediate effect of motivating Dean to pry his eyelids open. He blinked against the harsh light several times before focusing on his far too-big baby brother. "W-Was…was that in doubt?" he croaked, another cough tickling and erupting without much force.

Sam made a weird sound in his throat and scrubbed a hand down his wet cheeks. "Yeah, yeah you could say that."

_That would explain the residual terror clouding Sam's eyes._ Dean shifted beneath the covers. "So that would explain why you were just kissing me…" _Ah, good ol' distraction and deflection, my area of expertise._

"I was **not** kissing you. Eeww. It was mouth-to-mouth."

"So basically…kissing. Without the tongue." Dean shuddered dramatically. "I hope."

Sam couldn't stop the half grin tilting up the corner of his mouth. "As if, you perv. It's called _rescue breathing_."

_Rescue breathing. Huh. Sure have missed something, somewhere._

Dean made a move to sit up but was hampered by the poundage of blankets piled around and on top of him and by his weakened state. He extracted an arm from the forest of material and held it out, wiggling his fingers slightly. "Help me sit up." His voice was still irritatingly weak and raspy to his ears.

Sam did as asked, helping Dean to sit up then scoot backward until his back was resting against the headboard, only noticing his brother's puzzled frown when he stepped back. "What?"

The older man hesitated a second then lifted the covers and peeked beneath them. "Uh…Sam…why—why am I naked under here?"

"You're not naked. You have your boxer briefs on. Oh…and socks."

Dean rolled his eyes, just then noticing that he was sporting a hat as well. He reached up and pulled it off his head. "Okay, why am I essentially naked under here…and wearing a—your—hat?"

"Wilderness rescue."

"Huh?"

"Hypothermia rescue techniques. Skin-to-skin contact to share warmth. Just like Dad taught us."

Eyeing Sam's bare chest, Dean raised an incredulous eyebrow. "Wait—so you're telling me that you—that you—were—that WE were… Oh, God. We were _cuddling _half-naked in bed together?" Dean's outright horror was mostly faked, he knew as well as anyone the value of life saving techniques such as that. Still, the whole idea made him a little uncomfortable. "That's just wrong on so many levels, Sammy." Suddenly, Dean's stomach somersaulted and back-flipped, and he felt the acidic burn of rampant nausea claw at his esophagus.

"It's a perfectly acceptable, standard resc—" His brother's abrupt moan cut him off.

"G-Gonna be s-sick." Dean's eyes widened and a hand flew to his mouth.

Sam would have thought Dean was just being teasingly melodramatic if it wasn't for the fact that what little color he'd regained had melted away, leaving behind a garish green tinge. He lunged for the wastebasket and shoved it into place just in time. Dean started to heave, the emesis hitting the bottom of the receptacle with not a little force. Sam grimaced and looked away, laying a comforting hand on his brother's shoulder.

Dean finished and sat back with a groan—the bout of sickness draining his already abused body further. "Th-That s-sucked."

Both Winchesters jumped a foot when the motel room door suddenly banged open and a figure stormed across the threshold. Dean tensed. Sam was just about to dive for his weapon when everything clicked back into place.

"Bobby!"

"Bobby?"

The call came simultaneously from each brother, one in relief and one in clueless query.

"What're you idjits tryin' to do, give this old man a heart attack?" Contrary to the growl and gruff words, a note of relief vibrated through the room Bobby looked from one brother, whose eyes were still red from tears, to the other, whose complexion was a curious mix of sickly green and milk white. "Sam, you don't answer your phone anymore?"

Sam sat the contaminated wastebasket aside. "Sorry, Bobby. I-I was a little busy doing rescue breathing." The taller man's voice wobbled slightly.

"That close, eh?" Singer's terse question was colored with guilt.

Hand rubbing agitatedly at the back of his neck, Sam looked at the floor and cleared his throat, "Yeah. Too damn close."

Bobby's gaze locked on the older of the two Winchesters. "How you feelin', kid?"

"Like someone hit me with a Mack truck, backed up, and hit me again, then kicked me a few times for good measure," Dean clutched at his stomach and groaned his brother's name. "_Sam_…" The trashcan reappeared in front of his face and he suffered through another bout of intense heaving. Trembling in the aftermath, he lay back against the headboard gratefully when he was finished

"That'd be the venom workin' its way out of your system. Hate to say it but you're in for another rough few days, son."

Sam walked toward the bathroom to clean out the wastebasket. "What do you mean, Bobby?" he called over his shoulder.

"Your brother here's gonna suffer from rebound. A little like drug withdraw as the venom clears from his system. Real achy, sick to his stomach, headache, high fever."

"Hey, in the room here, people!" Dean snapped his fingers, or tried to anyway. "Can somebody _please_ tell me what the hell's going on?" He watched his younger brother exit the bathroom, paused to adjust the thermostat, and continue toward the bed. He accepted the wet washcloth when it was offered to him and wiped it over his face with a relieved sigh.

Sam grabbed a t-shirt and pulled it over his head before sinking down on the edge of the mattress. "I'll let Bobby tell you."

The older man shrugged out of his coat as he started to explain. "You kicked up a nest of Frost Flits, ya idjit."

"Frost whatnows?"

"Flits. Vicious little buggers originally from the Old Country. Think fairy but smaller."

Dean blinked at that. "Oookay, so I somehow disturbed a nest of these Frosty Whatevers and what? Where does venom come into this?" Suddenly feeling overheated, Dean shoved the multitude of blankets off of him.

"They swarmed and bit you. Injected you with their venom."

"How'd they do that without me noticing?" The blankets were flung back over him, smoothed by Sam's hand.

"They're invisible. You wouldn't have seen 'em. Wouldn't have felt their bites either. Gotcha in the ankle."

"Yeah, kinda like supernatural mosquitos," interjected Sam with a noticeable smirk.

The prone man harrumphed and pushed the blankets aside. He folded his arms across his chest, gaze focused on Bobby. "Tell me I didn't almost get taken out by supernatural mosquitos?!" Sam's hands were busy once more adjusting the covers over him.

Even Bobby had to chuckle at the outrage in Dean's voice. "Like I told your brother—more like tiny winged piranha. Vicious as all hell. Once they dose you up good, your body succumbs pretty quickly to hypothermia. The Flits then lure their prey—you in this case—back to their nest where you lie down—thinking to get warm. Once you're down, they swarm again, only this time they strip the flesh right off your bones. Basically they eat you alive."

The green tinge to Dean's complexion darkened contrasting with the pink blush of fever highlighting his cheekbones. He shoved the coverings off, pushed them to the end of the bed with his feet. When Sam's hands darted out, he growled, "Touch 'em again, Sam, and I swear I'll bite your hand off."

Sam raised his hands and stepped back in surrender, turning his attention to Bobby. "So how'd you get rid of them? You said something about getting them drunk?"

"Yeah. Well, basically. I concocted a mixture of gasoline, kerosene, and honey. According to the information I was able to find, these little bastards are attracted to _'a careful mixture of volatile substances infused with the sweet sacrifice of the bee'_. Not sure what the heck they used way back in the 15th century but figured gasoline and kerosene would do the trick. The Flits can't resist drinking it to excess."

"Kinda like PBR, eh, Dean?" Sam tossed out. His humor earned him a middle finger salute.

"Once they drink this stuff, they start to glow. The more they drink, the brighter they glow, and they basically drink themselves into a stupor. I waited for that to happen, and when they were down for the count, I rounded up any strays, tossed them in the pot and dropped in a grenade. BANG! No more Flits. Once they were all dead, the venom lost its potency. Unfortunately, you're body still has to rid itself of the poison."

"Oh, joy." Dean shivered and drew some, but not all, of the blankets back around him as the fever started to play games. "Lucky me. Hey, how come Sam didn't get bit?"

"'Cause you disturbed the nest when I stopped to…uh…pee."

"Oh. Guess I shouldn't have gone on ahead, huh? Shit—that reminds me—we've still got a hunt to worry about. Castleford—Castlewick—Castle-fucking-something or other. Whatever—the ghost of the ice fisherman guy."

"For what it's worth, I ran into him too while I was out there. Tossed me around some."

Both Winchester brothers gaped at the older hunter. It was Dean who spoke first. "You mean he showed up? Man, we were out there for hours without a single sign. Why'd he pick on you?"

Bobby shrugged. "Guess he just thought this old mug was prettier than the two of yours put together."

"You said he tossed you around—you okay?" asked Sam.

"Yeah, thought I was gonna be feedin' the fish in Claxton Lake for a few seconds there. But all told, it's nothing a few Advil and some Ben Gay can't handle."

"So, we were right about it being a vengeful spirit who's been killing people," observed Sam.

"My guess is it's been a combination of the Frost Flits and the ghost being responsible for the disappearances and deaths out there. And you can quit worrying about the ghost. It's being taken care of."

"It is?" Again the brothers' voices came simultaneously.

"I called an old friend, Caeden McClaren. He'll be here tomorrow."

"But, Bobby, I can take care of it," Sam offered.

"No." Dean's protest was drowned out by the older hunter cum salvage yard owner.

"No, you need to stay here and take care of this brother of yours. Wasn't kidding when I said he was in for a rough few days. So are you—it ain't gonna be all sunshine and rainbows playing nursemaid. You'll thank me in the end. McClaren's not too far away. He's a good guy."

Neither Winchester was ecstatic over the solution, but they let it go.

Feeling the tension suddenly rippling through the room, Bobby stood. "I don't know about you, Sam, but I'm starving. Why don't I go get us food before I see about checking in to another room for the night?"

Before Sam could do more than tentatively nod, Dean straightened a little and piped up. "Food? Hey, how about a burger?"

Bobby shook his head. "Ya idjit. How about Gatorade?"

Dean made a face. "I hate Gatorade. How about some French fries?"

"Gatorade. Trust me, kid, you aren't gonna want anything solid in your stomach for a few days."

"Coffee?" Dean turned piteous and hopeful eyes on first Bobby then Sam.

"Gatorade," came the tandem reply. Bobby continued, "Do you ever wanna eat or drink those things again? 'Cause if you do, my advice—don't even _think_ about them anytime soon. YOU'LL thank me in the end too."

The under-the-weather hunter harrumphed again—he was becoming quite adept at it after all—and muttered, "Fine. Gatorade. But it has to be the orange kind. All the other kinds suck."

Sam shook his head. _Yep, Dean was definitely feverish. His grouchiness reached new levels, climbing degree for degree with his temperature._

"Orange it is," Bobby turned to Sam, "How about you, Sam, what do you want to eat?"

"Anything's fine. I'm not picky."

A snort came from the man on the bed.

"Just bring me whatever. And some ginger ale for Dean too."

"7-Up," corrected Dean.

"Ginger ale."

"SAAAM!" Dean's voice was now an all out whine and he didn't care.

The younger Winchester rolled his eyes. "Fine. A couple of two-liter bottles of 7-Up."

Bobby Singer nodded and left the motel room, closing the door behind him and leaving the Winchester boys to their brotherly bickering.

Dean slumped down in the bed and rolled on his side, pulling the blankets up around his shoulders. "Man, this really sucks."

A few seconds went by then he felt Sam sit down next to him on the bed. He sighed. "You're not planning another cuddle session, are you, Sammy?" teased Dean, 'Cause I gotta say—if you're planning on making this a habit, I'm gonna go room with Bobby."

All was quiet for a second then Sam growled, elbowing him lightly in the side, "Yeah, like he'd ever wanna put up with the likes of you 24/7/365…and your dirty socks in the sink…and the science experiments you call food…always beggin' quarters to feed your addiction to Magic Fingers beds…not to mention that habit you have of…"

Dean's mouth ticked up at the corners, and he closed his eyes, drifting off to sleep listening to Sam list a litany of his faults. Each one growing more ridiculous and exaggerated.

_**Fin**_


End file.
